Michigan Vamp

My Old License Plate

Eccentric Night Owl

Quote from Blood Read

"An ambiguously coded figure, a source of both erotic anxiety and corrupt desire, the literary vampire is one of the most powerful archetypes bequeathed to us from the imagination of the nineteenth century."~ page 2 introduction to Blood Read: The Vampire as Metaphor in Contemporary Culture

Intellectual Vampire Quote

"If the vampire is an other, he or she was always a figure in whom one could find one's self...the despicable as well as the defiant, the shameful as well as the unashamed, the loathing of oddness as well as pride in it."~ Richard Dyer

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Friday, November 14, 2014

Vivacious, vampy, vixens. I think one of the reasons I love reading (and writing) paranormals are the awesome paranormal heroines. Combining magic with their wits (and occasional superpowers), these women can kick some serious butt, especially when they’re fighting (or becoming) vampires. Here are five of my favorites.

1)Buffy. Even through her fraught high school years, there was something about this vampire-slaying heroine that made me want to cheer. Funny, brash, her emotional fragility warring with her inherent inner strength, Buffy was a true heroine of her time.

2)Sookie Stackhouse. She may not have brawn, but Sookie’s got brains. And she needs them while threading her way through the world of vampire politics. (And I like her way better in the books than in the TV series).

3)Betsy Taylor, the vampire queen. (Undead and Unwed, by Mary Janice Davidson). Waking up in the morgue would be a shock for anyone, but Betsy Taylor takes it and the vampire world in stride, making her way to the top of the undead food chain in style.

4)Samantha Moon, from JR Rain’s Vampire for Hire series. Another ass-kicking vampire chick, Samantha Moon juggles being a mother and a P.I. while dealing with her jerk ex-husband who just wants his new vampire wife to go away.

5)Milagro de los Santos, of Marta Acosta’s Casa Dracula series. Twenty-something Milagro has issues. She dates all the wrong men, makes all the wrong choices. But we can’t really blame her when she gets turned into a vampire. Or is she something more?

Who are your favorite vampy heroines? Share them in the comments below!

The Hoodoo Detective

Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mysteries

Book 6

Kirsten Weiss

Genre: Urban fantasy/Paranormal mystery

Publisher: Misterio Press

Date of Publication: October 31, 2014

ISBN: 978-0-9908864-1-9

ASIN:

Number of pages: 291

Word Count: 75,000

Cover Artist: Becky Scheel

Book Description:

Hoodoo, haunts, and horror.

Riga Hayworth just wants to wrap up her supernatural TV series exploring the magic of New Orleans. But when she stumbles across a corpse, she becomes a police consultant on a series of occult murders, murders that quickly become all too personal.

“What we need is
more conflict.” Sam frowned, his sandy hair stirring in the breeze from a
nearby fan.

Riga Hayworth
caught a waiter's eye, pointed to her empty cocktail glass, and raised a digit.

Nodding, the
waiter bustled off, abandoning her to the crew of the reality TV show. Tourists
and black-aproned wait staff swirled about their courtyard table, in that New
Orleans mix of soupy heat and raw excitement.

But all Riga felt
was irritation. Irritation that so far the Haunted New Orleans episode of
Supernatural Encounters had been a bust. Irritation that she’d felt obliged to
do the reality show. Irritation that she didn’t really need the money from the
series, her husband had plenty for them both. And that left her awkwardly
trying to demonstrate some relevance, keeping her hand in as an income earner.
And why did she feel the need to prove herself in their marriage? At the
thought of her husband, her annoyance vanished, replaced by longing. What was
Donovan doing now?

“We need
tension,” her field producer went on. “It doesn’t have to be a fight per se.
Tension can mean two people who want different things.” He was dressed for an
L.L. Bean safari, but judging from his darkening freckles and ruddy face, he
wasn’t any cooler than the rest of them.

Summer in New
Orleans. Why?

Riga glanced
across the table at her slim, tousle-haired niece, Pen. One bare foot was
propped on the edge of her chair, straining the knees of her cargo pants.
Today's t-shirt read: KEEP CALM AND GET OFF MY LAWN, an image of a shotgun
bracketing top and bottom.

At least with
Pen on the Supernatural Encounters camera team, they had a chance for some
quality time. The opportunity to do magical research was an added bonus. One of
their interviewees, a local hoodoo queen, had joined them for lunch, and Riga
had been picking her brain about gris-gris charms.

Riga angled her
head back, meditating on a puffy white cloud. If Donovan had been able to get
away from his casino in Macau, New Orleans would have been different. Her lips
parted. Fun.

She pulled her
auburn hair off the back of her neck, enjoying the play of the fan on her damp
skin. Discreetly, she unstuck her white silk tank from her back, leaned forward
in the wrought iron chair.

“Story is
conflict,” Sam, rattled on.

Pen fiddled with
a video camera. Her chair was slightly back from the table, angled toward her
boyfriend and fellow camera tech John Wolfe. Her other foot rested, hidden, in
Wolfe's lap, being massaged.

Angus, their
sound man, turned a deeper shade of pink and looked away from the couple.

“I mean, you're
gorgeous,” Sam continued. “A Rita Hayworth clone whose name is actually Riga
Hayworth. The heart-shaped face, the hair. Your eyes are more of a
browny-purple, which is stunning, but the point is...”

Ignoring the
producer, Riga narrowed her gaze at Wolfe, still massaging her niece’s bare
foot. With his long sideburns and wavy, dark hair, his looks fit his name.
Seven years older than Pen, he was a grown man, challenging, virile, sexy. And
though Riga liked him, his relationship with her niece made her uneasy. Pen
wasn't even old enough to drink yet.

Catching her
eye, his face paled, and he laid his broad hands on the table. Riga was unsure
what her role of chaperone entailed and had decided to err on the side of
militancy.

“You're ignoring
me again,” the field producer said.

Riga looked up,
studying the spot between his pale blue eyes. “I'm not ignoring you,” she lied.
“Just waiting for you to elaborate.”

“As am I,
chère.” Beside her, Hannah the Hoodoo Queen propped her head in her hands and
fluttered her lashes. Tall, with the sculpted cheekbones of a supermodel and
the muscular frame of a pro tennis player, Hannah’s dark skin shimmered in the heat.
Dreadlocks streamed from beneath her gold-colored turban.

Sam waved his
manicured hands in the air. “Conflict. Stories are built on conflict. Our pilot
show had it in spades—”

Riga's mouth
turned down. “In the pilot we crossed paths with a serial killer. Do you really
want that again?”

“No, no. Of
course not,” he said. “Just... conflict.”

“We've got some
great footage of Riga rolling her eyes and smirking.” Pen shook her loose,
chestnut-colored hair, smothering a smirk of her own.

“It's a start,”
Sam said. “But we need more.”

“How much more?”
Riga asked.

“We need
conflict between people.”

“It's too hot to
argue,” Riga said. “Whose bright idea was it to come to New Orleans in June?”

He sighed,
glancing at Hannah. “Can't you two at least disagree a little? Magical
practitioner to magical practitioner?”

“Why would I
disagree with Hannah on anything that has to do with hoodoo?” Riga asked.
“She's the specialist, not me.”

“It's
television,” Sam said. “You should know by now there's no such thing as reality
TV.”

Hannah rose.
“Sorry, Mr. Producer. I don't do catfights. And now if y'all would excuse me,
I've got to meet a client in desperate need of a love potion.”

“Bye,” Riga
said.

Hannah winked
and sauntered through the restaurant, winding past the fountain in the center
of the courtyard. Pausing beside a table sheltered by ferns, she nodded and
disappeared through the garage-like entryway.

Sam folded his
lanky arms across his chest. “Riga... We spent the night in one of America's
most haunted houses, and you didn't react.”

“It's not that
haunted.”

Wolfe's hands
were under the table again, and Pen smiled. Riga relaxed, slipped through the
in-between. Wolfe's drink toppled, spilling ice and mint leaves and booze into
his lap. He leapt up, sputtering, dabbing at his jeans with a cloth napkin.

Pen's feet
retracted onto her chair. Peeling a wet leaf from her foot, she glared at her
aunt.

Riga gave her a
what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it grin. After a year of struggling, her magic had
had a sudden breakthrough.

Unfortunately,
other parts of her magic were still wildly awry. But the possibilities both
excited and terrified her. Enemies in the magical world were like gunfighters,
looking to make names for themselves by knocking off tough opponents. The more
adept her magic, the easier it was to defend herself, the more people came
after her. She fidgeted, itching to return to her hotel room to study the thin
file on the Old Man, the file she'd told Donovan she'd leave at home.

Wolfe tossed the
soaked napkin on the table. An awkwardly positioned stain spread over the front
of his jeans. “I'll be right back.” He headed for the bathrooms, passing the
bar. A youngish man in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts half-fell off his
barstool, but managed to keep his tall, tropical drink upright. The drinking
got started in New Orleans earlier than any other city Riga had visited.

“Riga, this is
important,” Sam said. “You need to react more. People need to see your emotion
to connect with you – whether that emotion is positive or negative. For
example, what are you feeling right now?”

“Annoyed.”

“Great! And what
do you do when you're annoyed?”

Riga's lips
thinned. “As a mature adult, I express my annoyance in the appropriate time and
manner. If you expect me to pitch a fit like some reality TV star—”

“You are a
reality TV star. Or you could be if we get this series off the ground. Look,
we've got three more days. Just… give me more reaction, okay?”

“Got it. More
emotion. No problem.”

Glass
splintered, and they turned toward the sound. Hawaiian shirt guy had navigated
off the barstool and knocked a waitress to the ground. Clumsily, he brushed an
orange from her knee. Her tray rolled along the moss-filled brickwork. A
toddler in a highchair pointed at it, laughing with delight. Clutching a
fistful of napkins, the bartender hurried to the fallen waitress.

Riga's brow
furrowed. Stupid drunks, that was her drink seeping into the patio floor.

Waving a hand in
apology at the waitress, Hawaiian Shirt staggered to the fountain, crashed into
a chair and stumbled into their table.

Angus stood
quickly, and laid a chubby hand on the drunk's chest. In spite of Hawaiian
Shirt's six-inch advantage, the stranger stumbled back.

“Well, Mr. Hit
Man, you need to move along.” Angus oriented him in the other direction.

The man nodded,
turned, brushing past Riga. His lips pressed to her ear, his breath hot and
sweet on her neck. “And you're worth a cool quarter mil.” He leaned into her,
the gun hidden beneath his shirt digging into her shoulder. Something dropped
to her lap.

Pen's face
twisted with disgust.

“That's enough,
buddy.” Yanking him away from the table, Angus shoved him gently in the
opposite direction.

The hoodoo hit
man lurched into the dark corridor that led to the bathrooms and the rear exit.

Riga looked down
at the scrap of paper folded in her lap. Hands beneath the table, she opened
it:

Neither of us is
alone.

Follow me and
only one of us gets hurt.

At a nearby
table, a father lifted his toddler off the ground, blew into the little boy's
belly. The child shrieked with laughter.

Riga swallowed.
There were too many targets. The waitress, bringing her a fresh Hurricane. A
well-dressed couple, engrossed in their smart phones. Pen, smiling vacuously at
Wolfe and oblivious to the danger. Riga clenched her hands, a wave of dizziness
surging through her body.

Abruptly, she
stood.

“Now that's an
emotion,” Sam said. “That's what I want to see on your face. What have we got?
Anger? Anxiety? Stress?”

“Indigestion.”
Riga followed the hit man.

Walking into the
cool shadow of the wood-paneled corridor, she unclenched her fists, her heart
slamming in her chest. In magic, fear and stress worked against her. Riga
fought to relax, rolled her shoulders.

It didn't help.
Tension sputtered through her system.

A humming
fluorescent light illuminated the narrow hallway in flickering sepia tones. On
her left, two bathroom doors, black and splashed with red paint. Further down,
a cart stacked with dirty dishes. A sliver of light gleamed at the end of the
hall. The rear door stood ajar.

So he wanted her
there, outside.

Which meant he
was probably in one of the restrooms. Centering herself, she pulled in energy
from above and below – hot molten red from the earth, cool blue from the sky.

Riga shoved open
the door to the ladies room, checked the stalls.

Empty.

Riga sidled
outside. She walked to the men's room, her sandaled feet clicking lightly on
the tile floor. Flung the door open.

Wolfe, braced
before a urinal, whipped his head around. “Hey!”

“Anyone in here
with you?”

“What are you...
No!”

“You sure?”

“Of course I'm
sure. Do you mind?”

“Sorry.” She
ducked out.

So the hit man
really was waiting for her in the alley, unless he could hide on the ceiling
like a bat. Glancing up, she blew out her breath. No vampires or hit men
crawled across the ceiling. Not that she really believed there would be.

Riga paced down
the corridor, energy rippling between her fingers.

Heat drifted in
from the cracked door. Licking her lips, she tried to ignore the fluttering in
her stomach and pressed her fingertips to the door. She extended her senses
beyond it, a gentle push on the auric bubble that surrounded her, forcing the
bubble outward. She felt no one before her, outside. Which meant…

Sounds of
normalcy – the clatter of dishes, laughter, light jazz music – flowed down the
corridor from the restaurant.

She stared at
the alley door. What. The. Hell. Extending her senses again, Riga probed more
carefully. A flicker of life sparked on the edge of her awareness. But it was
too small to be the hit man. A cat? The gorge rose in her throat at a familiar
pull, sickly sweet.

She pushed open
the door. A wave of damp heat struck her, and the scent of copper and rotting
garbage. A narrow brick alley. Tumbled cardboard boxes. A garbage can, tipped
on its side. A hand, lying on the pavement, wet with...

Gripping the
door, Riga took another step into the alley. She stared, breathless. The hoodoo
hit man lay on the ground, blood spreading from the gash in his neck in a
ghastly smile. Blood soaked his Hawaiian shirt. Blood puddled, trickled,
spattered. She stumbled back, dizzy, the warm door handle tethering her to
reality, keeping her upright.

Something
prickled at the edges of her consciousness, hot and cold and electric.

At the end of
the alley, a tall figure wavered in the heat, its head strangely bulbous. It
stretched, extended, darkening, pulling light inside it.

“What's going
on?” Wolfe asked.

Riga jumped,
gasping. She turned and looked into a camera lens. “Dammit, Wolfe!”

Riga glanced
down the alley. The figure had vanished.

Wolfe smiled,
one eye glued to the viewfinder. “I figured you were up to something when you
busted into the men's room, so I went back for my camera.”

Riga couldn't
trust herself to speak. She longed to punch him, to wipe that infuriating grin
from his mouth.

“What...?” He
turned the camera, panning down the alley. The camera dipped, swayed. “Oh.”

Digging into the
pocket of her skorts for her cell phone, she called 9-1-1, hands shaking.

“At least the
cops can't say you did it,” he said. “I saw you go into the alley. I've even
got it on tape.”

Riga grunted.
“Small favors.” Forcing down the fear and shock, her mind registered the scene.
The hit man had probably been attacked from behind. But the spatter would have
been hard for the killer to completely avoid, and she shuddered in spite of the
furnace-like heat rising from the macadam. It cooked the garbage, the blood,
the body.

There was
something horribly intimate about a knife attack. It was close, personal.

She'd rather
face a gun.

The hit man's
shirt was ruched up, exposing his weapon, a Walther PPK. He'd never gotten a
chance to draw it.

About the Author:

Kirsten Weiss is the author of the Riga Hayworth paranormal mystery series: The Metaphysical Detective, The Alchemical Detective, The Shamanic Detective, The Infernal Detective, and The Elemental Detective. She’s also the author of a steampunk novel, Steam and Sensibility.

Kirsten worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone. Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.

Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer reruns and drinking good wine.